


Family, Duty, Honour

by scrapbullet



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Brother-Sister Relationships, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Pre-Quest, snarky sassy dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin does not stir.</p><p>Dis, however, does. "I know you're awake. Show a little courtesy and inquire after your beloved sister, hm?" Her fingers tug at a dark braid come loose, quick to fix it. The clasp is warm in her hands. "I couldn't sleep. Entertain me."</p><p>With a grunt that is both irritated and resigned Thorin cracks open an eye, snorts gracelessly in Dis' direction, and bats at her wandering hands. "You are no longer a child, Dis, so why do you persist on crawling into my bed like one?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family, Duty, Honour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poemwithnorhyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/gifts).



They dwell in the Blue Mountains, though they do not call it home. Here, the rock does not part as easily beneath their tools as it did within the stronghold of Erebor, and there is a chill in the air that permeates even thick, dwarven flesh, spilling like mucous into their bones.

Dis cannot sleep. 

She is cold, in body and in mind. Her husband lies still beside her, snoring loudly, and the chasm between their bodies is vast. They are so very different, Dis and her wedded-husband. So very different. There is no love between them, though she supposes that she could learn to, perhaps, for the sake of their future offspring.

Perhaps, perhaps.

Dis closes her eyes. Her husband snorts, the airways blocked by old injury.

Dis cannot sleep.

When she tiptoes out into the hall it is with a heavy heart. There are no guards posted here in the royal wing, and her steps are quick and certain, leading her to their inevitable destination. Thorin's quarters are expansive, but not so much as to stop a sister from navigating them, slipping past her dear brothers defences to slide into his bed beside him. 

Thorin does not stir.

Dis, however, does. "I know you're awake. Show a little courtesy and inquire after your beloved sister, hm?" Her fingers tug at a dark braid come loose, quick to fix it. The clasp is warm in her hands. "I couldn't sleep. Entertain me."

With a grunt that is both irritated and resigned Thorin cracks open an eye, snorts gracelessly in Dis' direction, and bats at her wandering hands. "You are no longer a child, Dis, so why do you persist on crawling into my bed like one?"

Dis scowls. "Age means little when comfort is sought," she declares. 

"I see," says Thorin. "And what comfort am I to give, this night?"

He knows. Of course he knows. Thorin is no fool, he sees more than one would think; a sightless warrior, blinded by hatred and the desire for vengeance, some say, but he is so much more than that. He is Thorin of the House of Durin, a Prince, and her brother. He knows, and he knows _Dis_ , well.

Wriggling down beneath the silks and furs she props her chin on his shoulder, and his fingers trace the lightly furred edge of her jaw. The fine, whispery hairs are much too delicate to braid but she loves the sensation of his coarse fingers there, showing familial affection where her husband shows her none at all, of any kind.

"I do not want to do my duty," Dis states, finally. "I would show you how unsuitable he is as a husband, brother, but I know you won't listen. Pig-headed, that's what you are."

Thorin raises an eyebrow, but evidently takes no offense. Indeed, he huffs out a laugh through his nose, and tucks his sister in against his side with apparent ease. "What would you have me do? Ah- and before you speak, I will not consent to the removal of your new husbands head."

Dis broods, but concedes, at least to the comfort of Thorin's embrace.

"We gain much from this union, Dis. If Frerin-" Thorin's face twists into a grimace. The less said about their brother the better. "If I had a choice, I would not have this for you, but as Princess Royal-"

"I have to do my duty, yes, yes," Dis grumbles.

Duty has brought her to this, to a husband she knows not and a future she does not want. Dis dreams of Erebor, of home, and of an axe in her hands - not of babes in swaddling clothes and swollen ankles. She is a daughter of Durin! Her pride demands that she not give in so easily.

And yet, what would she do? She would take her husband's head if it were not for the honour of her family; that of the House of Durin.

That of Thorin, treasured brother.

In the dark, Thorin stirs. He presses his lips to her head in a chaste kiss and holds her close, like they used to when they were young. When the only cares they had were of the newest glittering gifts from the ruby and sapphire mines. His breath is warm against her face; familiar, though there is a stiffness to his frame that belies such feeling.

"Do you despise me?"

Dis shakes her head, and the tension within him disperses. "How could I, when you hold me so lovingly, so tenderly?" Her grin is surely felt against his bare shoulder, and he inhales sharply in crossness, fingers jabbing into her sides until she falls apart with laughter; utterly and embarrassingly ticklish. 

When they subside, having acted not at all like their age, they are red-cheeked and juddering still from mirth. Tears gather in the corners of Dis' eyes, foot somehow jammed in Thorin's stomach, and wipes them away with her sleeve.

"Can you sleep now, sister?" Thorin shifts them, spooning, and Dis is all too happy to do so, tugging his arm to rest over her stomach.

"Yes," she says, and that is all there is to it.

-

Except, it isn't, not really. Dis continues on, and although she is not happy, she is content, and when Fili, pink and squalling and punching his tiny fists angrily in the air as if the very world itself has offended him, is laid in her arms, she smiles.

For the Line of Durin endures, and she has done her duty.


End file.
